Can We Fast Forward Till You Go Down On Me?
by FeyWinds
Summary: Inspired by the lovely Atlin Merrick, using a quote from one of her stories and a idea I posted in her comments once. She is, for her information, enthusiastically welcomed to write what comes after this
1. Can We Fast Forward

John walked up the stairs of 221B just in time to hear Sherlock's, "I don't take domestics. Good day." He walked into the flat to see a old, obviously very rich man turn bright red.

"I'll give you any sum you want." He looked up at John when he walked in. "Reason with him, will you?" John snorted as he walked into the kitchen.

"You're asking the wrong person, mate. I'm lucky if I get him to do the dishes. Speaking of which." Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaving John to grin as he put away the milk.

The man got up, fuming through his walrus mustache and started to leave, but stopped in the doorway when Sherlock spoke next.

"Out of curiosity, what was your wife's full maiden name?"

"Cecily Ula Scotts." Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you." Only when the sound of the door slamming echoed through the house did Sherlock allow himself to smile.

John walked over, eyebrow raised.

"What was that all about?" Sherlock looked up at John from the notebook he had been scribbling in.

"Oh, nothing. Just a old friend catching up with me." He dropped it on the coffee table, revealing the woman's name with the first letters circled. "Tea?"

"Your legs aren't broken, do it yourself."

"But you're already up."

"Then we get to watch James Bond later,"He held up a hand to stop him from responding, "No arguments." Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, _dear_." John turned, grinning as he walked into the kitchen to the sound of his partner (in most senses of the word) grumble about illogical men, crappy effects, and dull plots.

* * *

><p>John was doing the crossword, when he heard Sherlock coming down the stairs behind him.<p>

"Case." It was one word, but it was enough to get him up and moving.

As they mad their way to the crime scene, John noticed something...off about Sherlock, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Are you alright?"

"What do you mean?" He sounded fine, at least.

"You seem a bit...off."

"I'm fine, John." He was saved from making any other observations when the walked into the park housing the crime scene. As he watch Sherlock do his usual, he relaxed, since there definitely wasn't anything wrong.

And, yet, he wasn't sure. There was something off.

"Nice try." The squad turned, to much gasping and double takes, to see Sherlock Holmes, normal except for his lack of jacket, gloves, and scarf, standing across the crime scene from Sherlock Holmes. John turned as the first one tsked and then started speaking in the voice of an American female.

"Huh. I could have sworn the sedative would last longer than that." The She-lock sighed. "Oh well. Anyway, it doesn't count until you catch me."

There was a sudden burst of speed as both of them went zooming across the park, the only two having any lock following being John and Lestrade. When they finally caught up, She-lock was up a tree, giggling down at Sherlock, who was standing at the base of the tree and looking annoyed. She grinned at the other two as they walked up.

"Briony Jackson." She pointed down at Sherlock. "We look like we're twins, right?" She waited for Lestrade and John to nod before shaking her head. "Nah, we're not even related, and we've done a DNA test." She had pulled whatever had been keeping her hair up out (John suspected an astronomical number of bobby pins) and had long black hair curling past her shoulders. She glanced at her watch and started coming down the tree in a impressive array of acrobatics, landing next to Sherlock who scowled. She shed the jacket, scarf, and gloves and handing then of him, revealing a oxford shirt under a vest. She smiled widely.

"You owe me Chinese food now."

* * *

><p>John had watched Sherlock and Briony act around each other, and it was obvious they were close. They finished each others sentences, they insulted each other in creative ways, and they were more fun to watch than crap television.<p>

And then Briony retaliated against a crack at putting blue highlights in her hair by pointing out that it had looked better than the time Sherlock had dyed his hair strawberry blond. Briony _just_ won the ensuing scuffle.

She had then moved onto John, talking to him about Sherlock as they walked home from the Chinese place, somehow getting to a point where they were comparing stories, some from John and the rest gotten by Briony from Sherlock's numerous exs. When John had raised an eyebrow at this, Bri had explained that most of the female nobility had taken Sherlock as a challenge, and had failed, but not without staying long enough for Briony to be able to extract valuable information from them.

"Has he used the 'aural assault with intent to arouse' voice?"

"Yes, and that is the _perfect_ name for that voice."

"It was voted on. It was between that and 'ovary exploding'. It literally _just_ won."

"You know, I am standing right here."

"Your point?"

As they bickered, John eyed them. One Sherlock was perfect. Two Sherlocks was...words would have to be made.

Both looked back at him, and he blinked.

"What?" Briony raised an eyebrow, and then looked around as she asked for directions, not noticing Sherlock looking her over with a contemplative air.

* * *

><p>John invited her up to the flat, and Briony lead the way, collapsing on the couch and smiling at the notebook where it was still on the table.<p>

"I take it you figured it out?" John raised a eyebrow.

"That was you?" Briony nodded.

"My work name is Irene Adler. The fact that I am able to befriend a Holmes and, therefore, weird, helped." She explained away John's confused face. "This is my really accent, even though the first time I set foot in America I was 22. He," She pointed at Sherlock. "Doesn't take up cases with me in them because he can't catch me, and even if he could, he doesn't want to."

John cracked open his beer, handing out one each. He watched as Briony took a sip, and his mind went back to his thoughts as they had walked over.

This time, however, Briony caught him. She looked over at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow. She grinned.

"Threesome, anyone?" She took a sip and smirked. "I've always been narcissistic."


	2. Till You Go Down On Me

There was a pause, if a slight one, as Briony downed the rest of her beer and set it on the coffee table with a clink. She had toed off her shoes, an action that became obvious as she stepped onto and over the coffee table and padded over to Sherlock. She stood over him for a while, holding eye contact, before sliding down to straddle his lap, a hand pushing his shoulder back until he hit the back of the chair as she went in for a kiss. It started slow, slowly picking up speed when Sherlock opened his mouth and they started fighting for control.

John watched, pupils blown before downing his beer and walking over. He leaned slightly and traced Briony's backbone, counting vertebra as he went. He was rewarded with twin gasps. The first came from Bri, who arched her back, eyes closed and mouth open, lips bitten and flush. Sherlock had gasped because, when Briony arched her back, her hips had canted forward. His face mirrored hers.

John leaned forward, an arm wrapping around Briony's stomach as he pulled Sherlock forward by the lapel of his jacket, kissing him. He felt a hand fist into his sweater as he undid the buttons of Briony's vest. He decided it was hers, as there was also a hand in the general area of his belt and he was pretty sure she wasn't that bendy.

He unwrapped his arm to tug the vest down, stopping at Bri's elbows so she couldn't move her arms. He detached from Sherlock and got a confirming glitter in his love's eyes before they both moved to Briony. She groaned in mixed annoyance and lust as her shirt also became unbuttoned and shoved around her elbows and they boys started teasing her.

However, that only lasted until Briony, who had somehow had enough braincells working to manage to pull off the offending garments, pushed them both back and temporarily kept them there with a out-of-breath "Bed."

They moved nearly as one, pushing/pulling their way up the stairs to John's bed (which was bigger than Sherlocks and was in a room that would result in Death-by-[Insert here] of someone who wasn't watching where they were going) and collapsing in it.

Sherlock took up behind John, Briony in front, and both weren't very discriminatory on who they gave attention to. Briony helped get his jumper off, and apparently got Sherlock's (tight) shirt off as well, because he saw it fall to the floor in his peripheral. He wasn't sure who got who's pants off, but just reveled in the fact that they _were_ off, giving him twice as much pale skin to touch than usual.

He paused.

"Waitwaitwait." Briony and Sherlock pulled back, pale eyes almost lost behind their pupils. John half turned, and picked Briony up. She gasped slightly as John re-situated himself so he was facing Sherlock, and Irene was in the middle. He let go, and Briony leaned back on Sherlock, panting slightly. John smirked. Much better view.

They moved together again, with much grinding and panting and moaning until they went from minimal clothing to none at all and John Watson never needed a condom so damn much in his entire fucking _life_.

Sherlock hands one over. However, he hands it to Irene, and John takes it from him because for someone who is _supposedly_ smart that is a _utterly stupid_ idea.

He fists it on, groaning slightly as he did so, and looks up to see the others in similar states and, despite himself, he stops to watch them.

He likes Sherlock like this. It is proof that the unruffleable Sherlock Holmes can be ruffled. And now he has it times two.

John could get used to this.

John catches Sherlock's eye, and he gets a nod in response. Irene huffs out a laugh and looks between them, and says, "Well? I haven't got all day."

In Sherlock's voice.

That was the last coherent sentence - fuck sentence, thought - for a very long while. For once, Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

* * *

><p>It had been days since anyone at the precinct had seen anyone from 221B. Mrs Hudson had been easily explained as she was visiting her sister somewhere in the south of France. The others, however...<p>

Lestrade walked up 221B and was about to knock when the door opened.

It was Briony, her hair up in a ponytail. She was wearing a football jersey with a 21 on the front over skinny jeans. She smirked.

"C'mon up." She turned, leading the way up the stairs. Lestrade couldn't help noticing the fact that a) she wasn't wearing a bra (a fact evident because the jersey was too big and the neck exposed her shoulder) and b) it was John's 21 football jersey (evident by the WATSON across the back). He started putting two and two together.

"I win the bet!" Sherlock groaned from his position on the couch, stretched out in pajama bottoms and his robe. He poked Briony when she sat next to him, leaning back across his waist.

"Really, Lestrade? You couldn't have waited three more days?" Lestrade turned when John walked in from the kitchen, chuckling. He was wearing a tshirt and pajama bottoms.

"I'm sure he's sorry for making you loose. Have some tea." He handed off the mugs and turned. "Something up?"

Now, Gregory Lestrade could read body language just as well as Sherlock, and that, coupled with the fact that he could tell that none of them were wearing anything underneath their cloths, left him satisfied that 221B was safe to be left alone.

"Nah. Just checking in. In fact, I got to go." He waved and left.

Mycroft Holmes hadn't married DI Lestrade just because of his (extremely pretty) face, y'know.


End file.
